


the end.

by blackbluewoo



Category: A.C.E (Beat Interactive Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst, Character Death, Funeral, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sad Ending, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16572698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbluewoo/pseuds/blackbluewoo
Summary: Junhee is Junhee and Donghun is Donghun and it feels like the end as if there was never a beginning.





	the end.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!  
> yes this fic does include major character death but there are no explicit death scenes, gore/blood, but it is quite depressing so i wouldn't reccommend reading if u know that affects u :<  
> also a song i listened to while writing this and have loved for the longest time is bubblegum - clairo the lyrics don't exactly match this but it's kind of a hollow sad vibe that i tried to go for  
> anyways i hope u enjoy !! please leave a kudos if u liked it and i love comments too so!! don't hesitate to leave some

~~~~

Summer is heavy in the air, sickly heat making its home beneath Donghun’s skin. There are crowds of people surrounding him- people who are leaving, people who are staying, people with smiles and bottles of beer clutched in their hands, cheering, people huddling around in circles exchanging whispers. Some of them, Donghun will never have to see again, never run into on the way to class or exchange glances with, ask if they have the notes for their shared lectures.

 

It’s the end, and it’s more bitter than it is sweet, more loud than it is soft, more shutting a book with a thud than finally reaching the last page. Donghun doesn’t feel ready, doubts he ever would. It’s the last day, the finale, the ending. His graduation.

 

Especially with Junhee approaching him, long black gowns trailing as he walked, cap sitting crooked on his bleached hair. He comes to Donghun with all his confidence and glamour and he hugs him, he wraps his arms around his shoulders and pulls him close. He smells like strawberry shampoo and deodorant and dry cleaning, and Donghun buries his head into his shoulder, arms secure around his waist. 

 

He would never see Junhee again, not ever, because Junhee had a  _ voice _ and a  _ smile _ and four years of acting classes sitting on his shoulders. He had his 7am flight to LA the next morning, a ticket that Donghun had seen neatly tucked into his wallet.

 

It’s not like Donghun hadn’t known, of course he’d known. Even if Junhee didn’t tell him the first time they’d met, with a ridiculous smile and a giggle and a brandishing of his hands, Donghun would have been able to tell. Junhee was the type of person that went to places like Hollywood, that walked the red carpet like he belonged, whose face was projected in big screens all over the country- all painted with the same features Donghun knew like the back of his hand. Even if Junhee hadn’t said “Hollywood, baby!” in the worst American accent known to man on their first meeting, even if Donghun hadn’t sat beside him while he booked the ticket for the day after graduation, Donghun would have known. Junhee was made for it, made for the stage and the screams and the applause, ate it up like he could never get enough of it.

 

Junhee is a lot of things, but if Donghun had to sum him up in one word it would just be  _ Junhee _ . There’s no other word, he thinks, to describe the his best friend- the one with the toothy, catlike smile and the loud laugh and the nasally voice and his dumb impressions of famous celebrities and the pure talent that would project him right into the lap of anyone looking. Junhee is Junhee, and Junhee is going to LA with his new apartment and his cousin and her wife and a new life that only Junhee can live, walk the footsteps of like he’s trod it his whole life. Junhee is Junhee, Junhee is going to LA and in all that, in that whirlpool of himself, is Donghun. And if Junhee is Junhee, Donghun is Donghun, he’s the boy with the bad haircut and the cute eyes and the braces that he can’t take off until a week after graduation, until Junhee is long gone.

 

Donghun tries to hide his tears then, tries to pretend like his watery eyes are because of the heat, but Junhee sees through him- always sees through him, and takes Donghun’s face into one of his hands and thumbs the falling tears away. The look in his eyes is tender, and it rises from the trickling tears to Donghun’s own eyes, and Junhee throws himself completely onto him, yet again, arms no longer gentle; grip like he could dull the ache that was thrumming beneath Donghun’s skin like a heartbeat, like something he could never let go. 

 

“We should go out,” Donghun says, voice small.

 

“You know I can’t,” Junhee replies. “I have to pack.”

 

His breath smells of peppermint, fanning lightly over Donghun’s cheek. It’s something he wants to taste, wants to press his lips against Junhee’s and see if he could take away the bitterness, the dryness in his mouth. Yet, he lets Junhee untangle himself, pull away, without protest- but the younger man hangs onto one of Donghun’s hands, and looks at him fondly.

 

“Help me pack.”

 

Donghun could never, would never say no. Even if he really,  _ really  _ just wants to go home and cry his eyes out, even if he really, really doesnt want to pile into a public bathroom and take his gowns off, he does. He does everything he doesn’t want for Junhee, and he dampens it with the thought that this might be the last time, one of the last times, he gets to do  _ anything  _ for Junhee, ever. 

 

So it’s fine, then, when he crumples his gown into his rucksack and goes with Junhee onto the bus to his apartment. He knows the route, and he knows they can walk it with ease- it would be easier, in fact, than taking the bus, but there’s a strange sentimentality to riding this bus, side by side with Junhee, for the last time, ever. 

 

It’s empty apart from the two of them, and as it progresses through the city it rattles and whines and Donghun sits next to Junhee but he feels like they’ve never been further apart. This is the last time Junhee will ride this bus, go down this road, sit beside Donghun like this, and Junhee says it. He rises to his feet, as if to mark the occasion, but not before choosing a soundtrack, which he sets to Into The New World before he stands, clutching onto the bus handles to stop himself from falling.

 

He dances in the aisles of the bus, and Donghun laughs at him because he looks stupid- he looks so stupid fluttering in between the seats and swinging off poles whilst trying to put on a show. Donghun laughs and laughs and doesn’t stop, because if he stops he’ll knows he’ll cry, he’ll cry until he’s run out of tears. So he laughs,  and Junhee dances, and everything’s good for a while, suspended in time, the light catching the blonde of Junhee’s hair, the bronze of his skin. Donghun can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever meet someone like Junhee again.

 

At Junhee’s apartment, the walls stripped of wallpaper and items folded into bubble wrap, Donghun tapes up some boxes that he and Yuchan will take to the charity shop tomorrow. Junhee had entrusted the two of them, through Yuchan’s seemingly never ending tears and his hug to Junhee that lasted a lifetime. He was younger, but bigger- and he enveloped Junhee with all 5”10 of his man-child sadness, and Junhee had patted him on the back in return, trying not to cry himself. 

 

Donghun thinks about it now, thinks about how Junhee will be on stage one day, big and bold, his name embossed in golden letters above some sold-out venue, and he feels bitter. His mouth is too dry and his eyes are too wet and it’s too much to deal with all at once. He would never say it out loud, never disrupt Junhee quietly whistling and taping up boxes, would never do anything to take him off the path he’d wanted for himself since they sat opposite each other at a run-down pizza place in the centre of town after their first meeting at a dull theatre party. (Donghun remembers how the blue light from outside painted Junhee’s features in it’s glow, and how he looked almost ethereal.)

 

They sit together, then, on boxes, holding beer cans in their hands. Junhee is too short for his feet to reach the floor, and so he dangles, sipping precariously on the can he has clutched between both his hands, laughing at something unfunny that Donghun had said. It feels strange, tense, but Junhee does his best to dispell it- to pretend like the regret that surrounds them doesn’t make it into their words. 

 

And still, even like this, he looks beautiful and endless- like everything Donghun has ever needed and wanted. He wants to take Junhee into his hands now, wants to trace every curve and angle of his face like he could recite it to his memory, wants to feel Junhee through his t-shirt and taste the beer on his lips, he wants to hold him just for a moment- a moment that he could never forget despite the inevitable days they will spend apart.

 

Donghun cries, then. Cries properly, shoulders shuddering and empty can crushed in his fist. Junhee stands, takes the beer off of him, so gentle and wonderful and caring, and he stands in front of Donghun’s sitting figure and hugs him again- like that could ever quell the pain of him leaving, of him leaving Donghun behind. 

 

Donghun could never blame him, because he knew Junhee was always Junhee and would always be Junhee and would always paint the sky pretty colours and share his headphones with strangers and dance for auditoriums full of people. But when Junhee pulls away, tears glittering in his own eyes- so pretty, so untouchable, Donghun lets a sob escape him, lets his guard down for a second.

 

“Stay,” He whispers.

 

Right there, right then, Junhee kisses him, hands on either side of Donghun’s face and bittersweet beer and honey lips on Donghun’s own, warmth pressed entirely against him. Donghun holds Junhee’s waist, holds him still and steady like he would never let him go even as he feels Junhee weep into the kiss, feels the cool tears drip down between them as he breaks away and rests both of their foreheads together.

 

“Stay,” Donghun whispers, again.

 

Because above everything, Junhee is his best friend. Junhee is his best friend who rides the bus with him on the way to class, Junhee is his best friend who spends too much money on groceries he will never use, on songs he will never play, who wastes too much time on girls he doesn’t love. Because Junhee is so much more to Donghun than he can put into words, because he’s life and breathing and singing and dancing and everytime Donghun does anything he will always think of Junhee and his smile and his hands Donghun could hold in one of his own. 

 

But Junhee was Junhee and Donghun was Donghun and they love each other, love each other like the moon loves the sun and the sea loves the sky and there was nothing in between them except everything.

 

Donghun looks at Junhee then, and he looks hauntingly beautiful with tear tracks down his cheeks and puffy eyes, he looks strangely entrancing even as he sniffles and wipes his nose and looks down to avoid eye contact. Because Junhee burns like a fire, like something Donghun can’t capture, can’t keep, the wonder and determination that keeps him going like a kindled spark, and Donghun doubts anyone could burn brighter.

 

He reaches up to touch Junhee’s chest, lightly, as if he could memorise the beating of his heart. This is the end for Donghun, and only the beginning for Junhee, and it’s so so different from how he could’ve ever imagined it even in the back of his mind. There was a lot of never and forever and maybes and all Donghun wanted to do was kiss Junhee until he couldn’t breathe, until they didn’t have to think of ever being apart.

 

He toys with one of Junhee’s buttons lightly, and Junhee leans forward, entire weight onto him.

 

“I can’t do this,” He says.

 

“Okay, okay,” Donghun replies, the air in his lungs feeling suddenly heavy. 

 

Junhee pulls away again, and blinks slowly, in thought, like he could make things different without having to make things different.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Donghun asks.

 

And Junhee just closes the distance between them again, presses their lips together like there’s nothing else, like there could be nothing else. It’s intense but gentle, soft but strong, like everything about Junhee, like every story Donghun could tell about him. It was Donghun and Junhee, Junhee and Donghun, and they had no space between them and their skin was brushing together and Donghun wanted to frame this moment in his mind’s eye so he could never let go.

 

“I love you,” Junhee says, voice small and pinched.

 

They’re together and they’re not, they had so much time that Junhee used on girls that he didn’t like, time that Donghun dedicated to his vocal training, time that slipped through their hands like sand in an hourglass they could never get back. It was falling now, slowly but surely, the ticking of the clock a reminder of their ill fate.

 

“Come with me,” Junhee says, desperately, pulling himself away from Donghun and scanning his eyes. “Come to LA, come to America and we can be together- we can, we can-“

 

Junhee seems to run out of energy the closer he gets to the end of his sentence, and Donghun just looks at him helplessly. He knows what Junhee feels, now, what Junhee had felt when Donghun had asked him to stay, because Donghun was Donghun and just Donghun, just a boy with a nice voice and a good vocal coach and minimal dance experience. He could never go to LA, he could never be anyone there, anything. Junhee could, Junhee could gain momentum and burn like the brightest star in the sky- brighter, even- and not crash. He could do that, he could be that. Donghun understands, and he would never say it otherwise.

 

“I can’t,” Donghun mutters, and buries his head into Junhee’s chest. 

 

Junhee’s fingers tighten in Donghun’s hair.

 

“Go be something,” Donghun’s voice comes out muffled. “It’s okay, Junhee. I’ll love you anyways.”

 

Junhee cries then, and lowers his head into Donghun’s hair. He breathes in a deep breath, and nuzzles into it like he could bury himself into Donghun’s curls. 

 

They go to bed then, cans discarded on the floor around them, Donghun clinging onto the thin fabric of Junhee’s shirt like a ghost trailing his footsteps. They go to bed and Donghun traces every bit of Junhee like he could commit it to memory and Junhee feels him- gentle, soft, so many words untold in the small peppering touches he litters across Donghun’s body. There’s no space between them, no physical space, nothing that Donghun can’t close. There is something else brewing between them, though, something they don’t want to say, something that time will come and fulfil anyway, something neither want to taint the moment between them with.

 

“I love you,” Donghun repeats, so many times to where he thinks his tongue has become numb. Junhee just kisses the tears away, wipes them with his fingers and looks at Donghun the same way Donghun looks at him, with a whole lot of desperation and trust and love. They have so much time and none at all, time that they wasted and used and Donghun thinks that if he could do anything differently he would’ve just kissed Junhee the first time they had met, talks about Hollywood dancing on his lips even then.

 

When the alarm goes off, a slow crescendo arousing Donghun from his sleep, he spies Junhee’s sleeping figure only inches from himself. His cheeks are flushed pink from the heat, mouth slightly parted, lashes fluttering against his skin which is shining in the dim glow of the one lamp Donghun has turned on. He looks peaceful, here, in this brief second before he can wake up properly. Donghun knows the moment he does, he will rise to his feet with ease and urgence in the same step. Donghun knows the moment he does, this time will end, the hourglass will be rid of sand and come to a complete stop.

 

And so it does. So Junhee goes to his feet, pulls Donghun’s shirt laid across the floor over his head and shuffles on his jeans. Donghun sits up, just a little, watching him struggle with his clothes, and finds a fond smile crossing his features.

 

“I need to get to the airport, now,” Junhee says, no hint of relaxation in his voice.

 

So Donghun helps him, for the last time, helps him take his suitcase and calls an uber and finds his wallet and his keys and piles all of it into the small car they both cram into. He sees Junhee tapping the car door impatiently, looking out of the window at the familiar sights of Seoul flashing before him. Dark circles are imprinted onto his face, strong beneath his eyes, and Donghun wants to kiss them away, wants to pretend for a moment that he holds the power to change things for Junhee.

 

Junhee gets his passport checked quickly, the lines of the airport small at so early in the morning. The two of them progress to security, which only Junhee can pass, and he sprints through quickly to the other side, no alarms buzzing, no disruption from Donghun’s sleep addled state.

 

Now, Junhee’s burden off his shoulders, he comes to the barrier which separates the security check area from where Donghun is standing, and reaches past the weak fencing to hold Donghun’s hand. Despite the chill outside, Junhee is warm- is always warm. Donghun smiles at him, soft, reassuring, because Junhee’s first time on an airplane is alone and anxiety paints his features despite his attempt to hide it. 

 

“I love you,” Donghun says, again, the words not losing their meaning after so many times saying them.

 

Junhee grabs his neck and pulls him forward into a kiss, everyone in security and out watching the two of them- watching the two men kiss and hold hands and smile like they weren’t losing each other. Donghun felt a blush creep up his cheeks, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets Junhee kiss him, for maybe the last time ever, and it's only after a few seconds that Junhee pulls away and takes a few stumbling steps backwards. He raises his hand at Donghun.

 

“I love you!” He calls.

 

Donghun smiles in reply, waving back to him as he watches Junhee turn back and walk away, suitcase dragging behind him. He feels something big and aching in his chest, suffocating him, stopping him from breathing, but it’s okay. It’s always okay. 

 

Junhee is Junhee and Donghun is Donghun and it feels like the end as if there was never a beginning.

 

\--

\--

 

After it all, it’s Junhee’s mom that calls him.

 

Donghun really, really tries not to cry into the phone- not to scream and sob and yell and ask his mom why, why it had to be someone like Junhee. She apologises, then, even, as if it’s her fault- as if it’s her fault her son’s flight number was plastered across all the headlines on all the news outlets, video footage of a plane soaring towards the ocean put on repeat, skyline full of smoke engraved into Donghun’s memory. She says sorry so many times, maybe as if she could make it better for the two of them- but it doesn’t. It doesn’t save anything, it doesn’t make anything any better, much less dull the ache spreading through Donghun’s body right from the centre of his chest.

 

The funeral is a small, sad affair. 

 

It rains. The sky seems to cry with them, the heavens opening as if shedding their own tears. Junhee’s mom reads quotes from the bible- stuttering and stumbling over her words. Similarly, Junhee’s close friends- classmates Donghun had thought he would never see again- take the stand. Donghun watches them blurrily, through his teary vision, and thinks about what he would say if he had accepted the offer for a eulogy- how he would put Junhee into words, how he could tell everyone how Junhee was the sun and the sky and all the stars, how he was light and life and breathing. He doesn’t think he could, doesn’t think he could take to the front underneath raven umbrellas spattered with rain and talk about Junhee’s life.

 

Yuchan hugs him through his heaving sobs without a complaint, without even a sparkle of a tear in his eye. It’s weird and not right because Yuchan cries at romantic comedies and cute dogs and butterflies with broken wings, and he rightfully weeped for the entirety of two hours when Junhee had told him he was leaving for LA. Not today, not here, at Junhee’s funeral, does Yuchan cry one tear- he just holds Donghun in his arms, pats his back, and looks straight ahead with a blank stare as if he could pretend none of this had happened, none of this was happening.

 

The end is Donghun, because Donghun is Donghun and Junhee just  _ was _ Junhee, with his big smile and his hands and his pretty hair that fell into his eyes and blown out by a sharp breath. Junhee was the Junhee that Donghun touched with his own fingers, whose cheekbones and nose and lips Donghun had learnt, had memorised and promised he would never forget. Junhee was the Junhee that Donghun loved,  _ past tense _ , the Junhee whose name was going to be on the top of some sold out auditorium.

 

The bus driver doesn’t say anything, even as he looks into Donghun- hair soaked through, suit dampened with rain- drop several coins into the change box with a clatter. He takes a seat near to the back, near where he sat with Junhee the last time he rode this bus, and he looks at the rain cascading down, spraying the bus windows. The bus is empty, and he feels the familiar rise of the wheels and the whine of the broken up engine and it progresses further into the city, through the roads he knows so well.

 

His heart aches when he gets off, at the familiar rise of the building, the thought of Junhee’s belongings littered around the apartment. He closes his eyes and breathes the air in deeply- the smell of the wet sidewalk and the seasoned chicken coming from the ramen restaurant opposite. His shirt becomes transparent under the pouring rain, water streaming down his face. It ruins his shoes that he half-heartedly polished last night when he couldn’t sleep, it ruins his hair that he ran his gelled hands through a few minutes before he took a taxi to the church. He doesn’t care, doubts he ever could. 

 

People bustle past him, shooting him strange looks and glares- a man, dressed in a black suit, standing in the middle of the sidewalk in the rain, umbrella folded beside him. He stays there for a while, while people move around him, elbows and shoulders scraping past. He stays there, still, while the earth continues to turn, while the sun sinks low in the sky, while the rain pauses but sits in the crannies of Donghun’s suit as he stands.

 

The world keeps turning, keeps moving, keeps going on, but Donghun stays still, watches the empty hourglass turn over and over, sand spilling through in a constant maze.

 

This is the end.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/4junhun)


End file.
